


Barrel Burn

by forestdivinity (ForestDivinity)



Series: Witcher PWP [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accents, Aftercare, BDSM, Come Marking, Comfort, Consensual Non-Consent, Cop Fetish, Crying, Dacryphilia, Dirty Talk, Dom Drop, Dom/sub Undertones, English!Jaskier, Fear Play, Good BDSM ettiquette, Gun Kink, Knife Kink, M/M, Oral Sex With A Gun (its not really a gun), Porn with Feelings, Possessive Sex, Safeword Use, Sexual Roleplay, Southern!Geralt, Sweet, and theres a little bit, boot kink, or at least its implied, theyre good okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23590741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForestDivinity/pseuds/forestdivinity
Summary: Jaskier had been making a fuss over it for months now. The first time he brought it up, Geralt was a little horrified - his gun was a deadly weapon, something to be used as a last resort in dangerous situations. It certainly wasn’t a toy that he waved around without a care in the world and it definitely wasn’t going up Jaskier’s ass, no matter how much he begged.--It's a cop/criminal au written purely so I could write some kinky gun sex with some sweet sweet care at the end of it. That's it. Also Geralt is southern and there's nothing you can do about it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher PWP [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635982
Comments: 65
Kudos: 248
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. chekov's gun

Jaskier had been making a fuss over it for months now. The first time he brought it up, Geralt was a little horrified - his gun was a deadly weapon, something to be used as a last resort in dangerous situations. It certainly wasn’t a toy that he waved around without a care in the world and it definitely wasn’t going up Jaskier’s ass, no matter how much he begged.

But oh, how Jaskier begged. He whined and wheedled and squirmed in Geralt’s lap and always kicked up a fuss whenever Geralt said no.  _ Spoilt _ , Geralt thought on more than one occasion,  _ too used to getting his own way _ . Geralt had ways to deal with spoiled brats, but no matter how many times he told Jaskier the lesson didn’t seem to sink in. And Geralt, for all that the idea still vaguely horrified him, couldn’t get the image of Jaskier helpless and scared out of his mind. After all, Jaskier had only described it a hundred times in excruciating, explicit detail.

Brat.

In the end, there had only been one thing for it.

The replica was nearly identical, on the outside at least, to his work pistol. Shiny black metal, the little nick on the barrel - it was even weighted correctly which pleased him more than it should have. The only difference was the tiny, engraved buttercup on the bottom of the grip. Well, that and the fact that it couldn’t shoot no matter how many times Geralt pulled the trigger. He kept it in a box in the gun safe and didn’t tell Jaskier about it, couldn’t help thinking of it often. When he was alone, he’d pull it out and stroke over the cool metal until it warmed in his grip, imagining it in Jaskier’s sweet mouth or buried between his legs.

What happened next was inevitable.

* * *

Geralt had always disliked summer in the city, it got hot and damp and sticky and there was no end to the rush of stupid crimes committed by bored, fever drunk young people. As such his nights were long and ended late and he was always stupidly sticky and sweaty by the time he was done. Geralt missed the country sometimes, with its sedate pace and altogether lazy criminals in comparison, but there had been no hope of promotion in the country and there was no Jaskier either.

As usual, Jaskier was still awake when Geralt got home, even though it was past three am and most sane people with a sensible sleep pattern would be dead to the world. That being said, Jaskier was not most people and his own job - if one could call it that - meant he was used to being awake at odd times. Geralt didn’t ask. He was ninety-nine percent sure that Jaskier was involved in something illegal but moral, and he didn’t need that final percent of proof. Reasonable doubt was a powerful excuse. Don’t ask, don’t tell could be applied to many things.

“Geralt! Oh, you look knackered - do American’s say knackered? I always get weird looks when I say it, anyway nevermind! -” Jaskier grinned and flitted around him like a hummingbird, or moth circling a light, all but shoving Geralt into the wide armed chair he preferred.

“Hm. You’re as energetic as ever.” He didn’t bother untying his boots but did drag the sweaty, leather gloves off his palm and flung them somewhere in the vicinity of the coffee table, hearing a clattering and a bang from the kitchen, followed by a groan and a swear. Geralt rolled his eyes. “What are you- be careful!”

Jaskier all but skid back into the room, his hair somehow twice as wild as it had been a few moments before. In his hands he carried a freshly opened bottle of beer and he waved the free one wildly. “The cupboard broke again. I was looking for the bottle opener!”

The drink spilled a little when he thrust it at Geralt, practically dancing from foot to foot, eyes bright and edging on manic.  _ Ah _ . His boy wanted something.    
  


Geralt dragged his eyes over Jaskier, slow enough that it was obvious what he was doing, but he didn’t say anything and instead just took a long draw from the bottle before sighing. Jaskier swallowed, his long throat moving elegantly, the column of it littered with mostly faded bruises in the shape of Geralt’s teeth. Condensation slipped down the glass bottle over his hand, the beer icy compared to the heat of his apartment. Outside, it would be light again within the hour, definitely within two. Geralt could already see the hue of the night shifting from a deep blue to purple. The fluorescent apartment lights bathed everything in an orange-yellow hue and it glinted off the shiny buttons of Jaskier’s silk nightshirt.

Who even wore those anymore?

He left the bottle onto the coffee table, next to his discarded gloves and tapped his lap once. Jaskier grinned and practically leapt at him, the old armchair creaking as he launched himself into Geralt’s lap. 

“Patience.” He didn’t need another noise complaint from the upstart neighbour down below. He’d probably get one anyway.

“Never.” Jaskier grinned and licked across his lips and teeth, his mouth shiny and wet. Geralt swatted him once on the hip before trailing his finger across Jaskier’s bobbing adam's apple and down his throat, until it was teasing through the thick fur on his chest. In his lap, Jaskier was trembling, balanced on his knees, looking not unlike a spring wound far too tight.

“Look at you, so tense. What has you all keyed up, sweet boy?” The apartment is stickier than it had been outside, Geralt misses the cool airconditioning of his squad car, imagines taking Jaskier over the hood of it. Licks a stripe up Jaskier’s throat and listens to the cut off groan that comes from the boy in his lap, Jaskier’s hands coming to rest on his shoulders.

“I’ve been bad, Officer.” The voice that comes out of Jaskier is pitched and throaty. Geralt can taste sweat and a hint of cigarette smoke on his skin, attuned to the taste of it after years at his father’s side, watching him hand roll and smoke the same way Jaskier likes to. So this is how Jaskier wants to play? It’s not an unusual game between them. He looks up and raises a brow.

“Hm. You’re always bad.” He teases, letting himself slip into the role. Jaskier’s hands slip down his shoulders and chest as he drops his knees to sit fully in Geralt’s lap. Bare, sweaty legs settle against Geralt’s uniform pants, the silky shirt is quite obviously tented. Geralt ignores it, pushes Jaskier’s neck back again. “Such a bad boy. What am I going to do with you?”

Jaskier groans and his eyes glint in the too bright lights. His fingertips dance over Geralt’s broad chest, tapping out an odd little tune. 

“You’ll have to teach me a lesson… Officer.” He kisses his teeth and gives Geralt a broad, boyish grin, one that stretches slow and easy across his handsome face. The title is tacked on like an afterthought, drawn out as lazy as the grin. Talented, devilish fingers run over the holster of his gun and Geralt growls. Slut that he is, Jaskier just shivers and winks. 

“Don’t touch that.” It’s not that Geralt doesn’t trust Jaskier but, he doesn’t trust Jaskier. Silly little foreign boy, with light fingers and even lighter toes. Geralt doubts he’s ever shot a gun in his life. Doesn’t know the dangers.

Maybe he’s wrong. He isn’t going to ask and find out. 

“Or what, Officer? Will I get in trouble?” The heat of the apartment is oppressive, Geralt can feel it burning through his chest. Jaskier flutters his eyelashes, putting on a voice like a fifties housewife - if a fifties housewife wanted to get thrown to the floor and fucked like an animal. 

“You’re already in trouble, boy. Don’t push it.” Jaskier’s hair is soft and messy and just a little damp beneath his fingers. Sweat beads along his forehead, gone tan with the summer. He grips and wrenches Jaskier’s head back, grazes his teeth along that sweet neck, his gun burns a hole in his pants. Everything is uncomfortably humid, clinging sweet and salty like bad perfume.

The groan that leaves Jaskier is sweeter than any music he’s ever sung. The night is bright and burning and Geralt  _ wants _ like he’s rarely wanted before, all the shadows inside his soul swarming for attention. 

Jaskier opens his mouth to say something. Something stupid and slutty and sweet, knowing Jaskier. Geralt slaps him across the face. It’s light, won’t leave a bruise, not even a faint red mark. The sound of it still cracks across the room and Jaskier groans as his head snaps to the side.

“I didn’t say you could speak, boy.” The slightest twinge of a southern drawl that he’s spent years learning how to disguise slips into his voice. Jaskier shudders and nods, and his hips rock up as his eyes glance down at the gun, still holstered on Geralt’s hip. There’s a slowly growing damp patch on his pretty silk shirt. Geralt wants to rip the shiny buttons open and see them fly across the room but instead he grits his teeth and lets his own hand cover the gun, hiding it from view. 

Tonight. He’ll do it tonight.

“You plannin’ somethin’, boy? Got your eyes locked awfully tight on my gun, someone might get the idea that you’re goin’ to do something.” 

Jaskier chokes a sound off in his throat, Geralt’s hand still forcing his head back and up. His eyes, the prettiest blue Geralt has ever seen, look back up at him and they’re wide and questioning and eager. Oh so eager. 

“You gonna do somethin’ boy? Go on, answer me now, before I get impatient.” 

“No, no officer, I swear,  _ please- _ ” It’s been a while since Geralt has heard Jaskier like this, his voice choked and swinging wildly between too high and too low. Maybe it’s the accent, or maybe it’s just Jaskier, but he sounds boyishly young. Too posh for what Geralt is going to do to him. Definitely posh enough to be the type of pervert to want it. Were his head free, he’d been waving it wildly from side to side. With Geralt’s hand tangled so tight in the short brown locks, all he can do is tug his own hair, head making minute little jerks that he obviously enjoys. 

Geralt lets out a slow, drawn out breath. Tries to gather his control around him as light catches and spins around him. The gun. The  _ gun.  _ It is hard and hot and unyielding beneath his palm. 

“Well, if you ain’t plannin’ to rob me…” He makes a show of it, drags his eyes up and down Jaskier’s body as if he can’t tell how aroused he is. As if Jaskier is there, making a mess of himself already, dripping like a tap. When he finally lets his eyes linger on the tent between Jaskier’s legs he tuts and Jaskier shivers as if a breeze has caught him unaware. There is sweat beading at his temples, more of it gathering in the hollow of his throat, Geralt licks it up before burying his teeth in. Hungry wolf, eager for a bite. Sweet boy, red as a hood, whining in his lap - is it any wonder he can’t resist?

“If you ain’t plannin’ to rob me -” He repeats, “- well then you must be some sort of pervert. You a pervert, boy? See a man with a gun and spread your legs like an eager little slut? Then, sound of your voice… you ever seen a real gun before, back in that shithole you call home?”

Jaskier whines, trying to shake his head again. 

“No? No you ain’t a pervert, no you ain’t never seen a gun? Which is it boy? Both? I think we both know that’s a lie.” He wraps his hand around Jaskier’s cock, letting his hand leave the gun to cradle Jaskier through sticky silk. 

“It’s not, officer, please, fuck!” Geralt squeezes and Jaskier’s voice goes high and thready and gets lost somewhere in the popcorn ceiling of the apartment as he moans. Geralt is hard in his own tight pants, aching something fierce, so damp and sweaty he feels like he might drown. Perhaps that's just the arousal.

“It’s a crime to lie to the police, boy, and I’ve got proof you’re lyin’ right here in my hand.” He squeezes again before pulling his hand away and all but throwing Jaskier to the floor, keeping his hand tangled in his hair. 

“I’m sorry officer! Forgive me, please don’t, I can’t… I can’t go to prison, sir! I’ll do anything, please just, I-” His voice cuts off into a breathy moan, rocking on his knees, forced up into an awkward position by the hand Geralt has in his hair. God, but he makes such a pretty sight, has done since the day Geralt met him. At a crime scene no less. The first of many.

Jaskier is very likely a criminal. That’s fine. Geralt can punish him and him alone. 

He tuts in the back of his throat. Drops Jaskier to the floor and he crumples like a puppet with its strings cut. His heart beats like a drum in his chest and all the way up in his ears, his cock is so hard it aches. If he touched it now, Geralt is sure he’d blow his load before he even got a chance to see Jaskier writhing on it. On his gun. He picks up the beer, the glass is barely cold now, and finishes it in one.   
  
“Anythin’, boy? That’s a dangerous promise to make.” He stands, uses his foot to shove Jaskier out of the way, back against the coffee table. It’s an awkward position, painful to hold for too long, but oh if it doesn’t leave Jaskier so wonderfully exposed, his shirt askew, his hair equally stuck up in the air and stuck down on his face. The very tip of his cock is peaking out from under the ruined fabric. 

He’s wanted to ruin this boy for a long time. 

“Up. Bedroom, now. I want you on the bed and prepped by the time I’m ready to have you, boy, because I ain’t gonna wait to get you ready, you understand?” He steps forwards, shoves the steel capped tip of his boot up under Jaskier’s balls and watches him whimper. Bright blue eyes look at the gun on his hip, the hard swell of his cock. His boy breathes in shuddering little pants and Geralt waits, gives him a chance to say his word. The room is lighter, a dusky pink that matches Jaskier’s flushed cheeks and the bright red cherry of his lips, bitten up from his own teeth. 

“I said, you understand, boy? Or are you deaf as well as dumb, huh? Or just too busy thinkin’ about cock?” He nudges his tip forward, squeezes Jaskier’s balls between his boot and Jaskier’s own body and listens to the strangled whine that leaves him. Jaskier shakes his head, legs spread akimbo, back arched like he’s prostrating himself for the lord. Or maybe Lucifer himself. 

Jaskier is certainly the devil’s work if Geralt has ever seen it.

“I understand, officer!” Geralt pushes a little harder and Jaskier’s voice turns into a strangled whine at the heady mix of pleasure and pain. He twists and arches higher, legs shaking from the strain of it and Geralt groans. Sin. It should be a sin to look so fucking delicious, even when being hurt. He drags his foot away. 

“Up. Go.” Jaskier scrambles up and almost falls over the coffee table, forgetting which way the bedroom is. Geralt can’t help but laugh, something cruel and promising in the back of his throat. As soon as Jaskier is out of sight he rips the gun from its holster and all but tears the safe open, albeit as quietly as he can. It doesn’t work if Jaskier knows there’s been a change. 

He rubs his thumb over the buttercup and palms himself through his jeans. All he can smell is sweat and need, the apartment a wallowing heat trap. From the bedroom there is a gasp and a moan. Geralt finds his mouth is dry, dryer than the desert despite the enveloping humidity of the room. The replica is cold in his hands but quickly warming, he shoves it in the holster and tilts his head back to the grotty ceiling of his apartment.    
  
_ Breathe _ , he tells himself. Just breathe. The early morning light is hazy now, showing all the dust in the dawn. He pulls his hair from it’s usual tie and curls his hands into fists and then releases them again. Jaskier’s moans turn to breathless whines and then quiet from the bedroom. Too quick.   
  
Well, his boy has made his choice. Geralt rubs his hands, sweaty as every inch of him, across his pants. They’re damp enough that it makes little difference. He wishes he had a drink, or a cold bucket of ice to plunge himself into. It’s all too much. Months of buildup and suddenly everything is burning up around him.

He shouldn’t be so hard. So eager. 

He makes Jaskier wait. His own blood burns and pulses from his forehead to his toes, wonders if his boy is squirming or sitting good and pretty like he was told to.  _ Breathe _ . He takes a step and then another, the room is only getting warmer as the sun begins to rise. 

{}{}{}{}

His feet carry him to the bedroom. Inside, the curtains are pulled just so, bringing back the dark which is somehow easier to bear. Jaskier is still in his nightshirt, hands and knees on the bed, the soft cotton of the comforter tangled around his knees. 

“Look at you, sweet boy. Filthy, perverted thing, no shame in you, is there? So fuckin’ desperate for it you’d let me do… well,  _ anythin’ _ , ain’t it?” Geralt wraps his hands around Jaskier’s hips. Slender, slim. Fragile beneath Geralt’s hands. 

“Yes, fuck, Geralt, officer, anything!” His body shudders. Between his legs his cock is heavy, red and swollen with need. Geralt wants to lick and suck and maybe bite it but not tonight. This morning. What is time anyway?

He yanks Jaskier back to the edge of the bed, drags his knees over the cotton as Jaskier loses his balance, goes face first into the sheets. Geralt steps forwards, drapes himself over Jaskier’s body, uses nothing but his weight to pin Jaskier there, hot and shaking beneath him. The cuffs on the table by their bed aren’t police issue, they’re lined with leather to take away the sharp, skin cutting bite. It’s close enough.

“You’re gonna be so good for me boy, and maybe if you’re lucky I’ll let you off with a warnin’.” He growls out, cuffing Jaskier’s slender wrists behind his back, forcing him deeper into the sheets. The noise Jaskier makes in response is wanton, muffled. Geralt squeezes his own cock hard and drags his fingers down Jaskier’s back, pinching at his ass. 

“Yes Officer…” Jaskier sounds close to sobbing. If Geralt doesn’t have him in tears by the end of this he’s failed in his job. He stands, resists the urge to unbutton his shirt, knocks Jaskier’s knees further apart just so he can see him struggle more, and oh he’s such a bastard because he enjoys making things hard.

“Roll over, boy.” His voice is bark and bite and he’s never felt more cruel than as Jaskier struggles to throw himself over, arms bound, legs tangled in the cotton of the comforter and the silky sheets he insists on. He puffs and pants, skin flushing pink and then brilliant red as he manages to throw himself over, taking deep gasping breaths from where he glares at Geralt on the bed. 

It’s a pathetic little thing, considering his position, considering how hard Jaskier is, legs spread wide. 

“Oh, what’s that face for, sweet boy, you said anythin’. And I never claimed to be a nice man. Wouldn’t have you bare and bound in my bed if I were. Did you think this was gonna be easy? A quick fuck and run? Oh no boy, I’m gonna ruin you.” He gives Jaskier a toothy, filthy grin, something he learned from his brothers and boys at school. The type of grin that parents warn their little girls about. Too bad they always forget to warn their little boys.

Jaskier whimpers and his eyes go wide, mouth slack. He shakes his head a few times, shoulders shifting. His hips lift and fall and Geralt can see fear and arousal war in his eyes, on his flushed, stupid face. 

“Please, sir… I can’t, I’ll be good, I promise!” Jaskier begs, feet rubbing against the sheets as if he might get away, shiny all over with sweat and need. Geralt coos. Slaps him ever so lightly on the cheek, more of a tap than anything. 

“Oh I know you’ll be good. That ain’t gonna stop me though. Not when I have such a pretty lil’ slut in my bed.” A low keen fills the room, Jaskier shakes and writhes again, twisting on the bed, rucking his shirt up higher, bunching the sheets around him. Geralt straddles his chest, admires the breadth of it, the thick carpet of hair. Oh Jaskier is a pretty boy, but he is quite definitely a man, one that Geralt has every right to have his way with. 

Jaskier has his word. He hasn’t used it yet. 

“No use strugglin’ boy. You ain’t got a hope in hell against me. Oh, I can see you got some hair on your chest, but that don’t make you a man. Just gives me another thing to pull.” Geralt’s fingers are calloused and strong, he tangles them in Jaskier’s chest hair and uses it to yank him up, admiring the high cry it draws out of Jaskier. He’s not entirely cruel though, only holds him for a moment before dropping Jaskier back to the bed. 

“You gettin’ it yet, boy? You’re mine now. And I can do  _ anythin’ _ I want.” Jaskier whimpers and nods roughly, quickly, tears welling up in his pretty little eyes, blown dark and wide with lust. It’s a good look on him. 

“Yes! Yes officer, I understand, I’m yours, promise, please, I want, I need, please Geralt...” His eyes fall to the gun, still holstered at Geralt’s hip. Still there. Like it’s never been before. Geralt growls, slaps him across the face again, harder this time. Jaskier’s head snaps to the side and Geralt bites back a low growl of arousal when tears finally leak down his cheeks.

“I know what you need, boy. You’ll get what you want, when I say you get it. You ain’t the one in control here.” Jaskier is nodding again, his chest heaving as he gasps for breath. Geralt leans forwards and bites at his throat, hard enough to leave a deep red mark that will later become a purple-green bruise. He needs to taste, get the sharp musk-tang of Jaskier’s skin in his mouth and memorise it forever. 

He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life. It’s filthy, horrible. A sin against god, a crime against nature. How can it feel so right? He wants to blow himself inside Jaskier. Isn’t sure for a moment if he’s thinking of his cock or the gun. He palms first one and then the other and makes sure Jaskier is watching as he does so.

_ Not real _ , he reminds himself, but Jaskier doesn’t know that. 

His hand is only shaking a little when he pulls the gun out of its holster.  _ Not real, not real _ , it echoes in his head but Jaskier is staring, has gone stock still. Like a statue or something more. Geralt swallows, tightens his grip. The gun is heavy and warm against his palm. There’s a safety and a trigger, just to add to the illusion.  _ Not real _ , but it could be, and he flicks the safety off. 

Jaskier chokes. His shoulders shake, tears well up in his eyes, Geralt can barely see, the thin light through the curtains is hazy and there is dust and lust clouding every inch of his vision. The world suddenly seems very, very far away. All he can think about is Jaskier and the gun. He can’t breathe, more aroused than human. It shakes in his grip. Jaskier whimpers again, almost silent.

Geralt drags the muzzle across his cheek. Jaskier whines, and he’s flushed such a brilliant scarlet red. Is the metal hot or cold, Geralt wonders. Doesn’t dare to ask.

“Fuckin’-... Fuckin’ pervert boy, look at you. I should pull the trigger now, ain’t anyone who’d look for you. Ain’t anyone who’d wonder what happened. Just another whore, got into some trouble.” His voice is a low, rumbled growl. Deep enough it shatters the tension in his chest, Jaskier doesn’t dare move, he’s almost cross eyed where he’s staring at the gun, the shiny tip of it. The little nicks. Surely he can’t see it properly. 

“Offi… Officer…” Jaskier’s voice is tiny, his body tense. Geralt moves the muzzle another inch until its resting over Jaskier’s lips. They’re red and shiny, glistening in the brightness of an early summer sunrise. It’s daylight proper now and Geralt doesn’t know where the darkness went, just knows his heart is bouncing like a jackhammer and Jaskier is looking at him, terrified and aroused.   
  
He pushes the barrel in. Jaskier moans loud and low around the metal, his lips wrap around the pistol the same way they would Geralt’s cock. Tears once again leak from his eyes and all Geralt can do is hold it there, the prop, the toy, the  _ gun _ . He doesn’t dare touch the trigger.    
  
The gun inches deeper. Jaskier shakes and groans and Geralt hisses, anger and arousal and desperation flaring inside of him.

“This what you wanted, boy? Filthy fuckin’ pervert, wanted to be put in your place. Been beggin’ round, desperate for it. Oh I know all about you. Testin’ my patience, enticin’ me in. Little devil’s worker that you are. Well you got what you wanted boy.” He grips Jaskier’s jaw tight enough to ache with his spare hand and thrusts the gun as deep as it will go, until Jaskier is choking on warm, hard metal.

“G’r’lt!” He manages to gasp out and Geralt thrusts the gun, once, then twice, watching Jaskier’s pupils dilate. 

“Gonna come from this, boy? Bet a whore like you could. They always warn their babies not to grow up slut, but you obviously missed the memo, didn’t you?” His voice is dark. Meaner than he’s ever heard it. Jaskier breathes rapidly through his nose and tries to nod, moans out a yes that more of a gargle as Geralt fucks his mouth slow but deep. Doesn’t go too fast, wary of Jaskier’s teeth. He’s got time. 

Got all the time in the world. Jaskier isn’t going anywhere. Not with Geralt’s gun down his cock whore throat and Geralt’s cuffs around his bird-bone wrists. Not with his cock harder than steel, leaking like a fucking tap. And if Jaskier comes? Well Geralt has seen him come once, twice, thrice in a night. He’s got the stamina of a sixteen year old and masochistic streak a mile long. 

Geralt can make him come till he sobs and Jaskier would still enjoy it. 

Not that it matters tonight - though of course it always matters - because Geralt is in control. He can do whatever he wants. The thought is enough to make his vision cloud and he breathes heavily through his nose.

“Go on then boy. Prove that you’re nothin’ more than a two dollar whore. Fuckin’ pervert for a big man with a gun, well you’re gonna fuckin’ come for me and then come again, and again, until I’m done and not a minute sooner, sweetheart.” He grinds the gun against the back of Jaskier’s throat, a mite rougher than he’d intended but Jaskier all but convulses below him and wails, his blue eyes rolling back and up. Geralt watches through his own hazy vision as Jaskier comes, swallowing around the slick barrel of the gun, sobbing in humiliation. He’s never seen an orgasm so intense. 

It is with considerable self control and a painfully tight squeeze of his dick that Geralt holds off his own orgasm. Even then it’s a close thing, what with the heat and the smell and the pleasure thrumming through his body. He drags the gun from Jaskier’s mouth, his lips release it with a slick pop. 

Geralt drags spit soaked metal across his face, presses the muzzle against Jaskier’s forehead where it catches on his hair and his sweat soaked skin.  _ Not real _ , he tells himself. The endless black of Jaskier’s blown out eyes stare up at him, he wonders if he looks as fucked as Jaskier. Is he any better? Is he worse? 

“Look at you. Lucky you’re pretty boy or I’d end it now. Ain’t no use gettin’ involved with things like you. Sent by the devil himself. Temptation on two long legs.” His voice feels choked, as if he’s the one with a gun down his throat, at his head. Jaskier sobs again and then he’s crying true and proper. Geralt leans down and licks the trail it leaves up and feels like filth itself for doing so but its not his fault Jaskier has always been so fucking hot when he cries. 

“Officer, please… Please don’t hurt me, please…!” Geralt closes his eyes, lips still pressed against the soft skin of Jaskier’s face. Tomorrow (or later today?) the skin will be rough with the barest hint of stubble but it’s still soft for now. He loves and hates it with equal measure, for making Jaskier appear just a tad younger. A little bit more innocent.

Such a sweet and filthy thing. Like a birthday cake that’s been dropped. Or maybe more like a birthday cake that's been soaked with wine and vodka until it's certainly not suitable for children.

“Oh, sweet thing, I ain’t gonna hurt you. Not the way you’re thinkin’ anyway. But I’m gonna destroy you, there ain’t no doubt about that. ‘Specially when you cry all pretty for me. You need to stop, you tell me, but until then? You are mine, boy.” He bites along Jaskiers jaw and then down his neck, sets the gun on his chest, the muzzle of it in the crook of his throat. Gives Jaskier time to say his word, if he needs to. 

_ Albatross _ , of all things. Geralt doesn’t know why but he’ll respect it if Jaskier uses it. 

But he doesn’t.

“ _ Yessir _ .” Jaskier whispers and Geralt hums, low and slow in the back of his throat. He just needs a minute or two and he’ll be fine but now there is something sinuous and hungry slinking through his veins, telling him to take and  _ take _ until there’s nothing left. He lays his head down onto Jaskier’s chest and listens to the rough bump beat of his heart. 

“Such a fragile thing. Little bird, sweet little devil. No idea what I would do to you, not a fuckin’ clue, boy.” 

The light is wrapped around them both. It shatters like a halo around the mess of Jaskier’s hair like he’s fallen from the very sun itself. Geralt wants nothing more than to make him cry or maybe see him gone. Just a little bit. Just forever. The thought is terrifying. Scared of his own demons, this personal one sent just to tempt him. It’s funny, he thinks with a laugh, he’s never religious until he has Jaskier writhing beneath him and then he knows that there’s something  _ other _ inside of them both. 

_ Enough _ , he tells himself. It’s not real. Just a game. 

For a while he just lays there, losing himself in Jaskier’s skin, the gun just above his head. The awful heat of it all. He remembers being eight, or maybe eleven, and having chickenpox for a week. The itch and fever of his skin as he scratched is familiar again now. 

* * *

“Yellow, Geralt.” The illusion shatters and breaks. Geralt blinks and it is like waking from a dream and perhaps he had been sleeping because there’s only Jaskier, young and bright and human in his bed. He blinks again and swallows. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to… It was just a lot. I mean, what’s wrong darlin’?” He murmurs, setting the gun-not-a-gun on the bedside table and Jaskier shifts and winces a little on the bed. 

“Shoulders and arms are going numb. Could you uncuff me now, love? I know it's all part of the game but. I’d like to be able to stretch tomorrow. That’s not why I called yellow though. I was worried about you.”

Geralt winces and helps Jaskier sit up, carefully unlocks the cuffs, glad they don’t actually need a key. Jaskier’s shoulders are stiff, tense from being locked in one position for so long and Geralt frowns, not usually so careless with Jaskier’s wellbeing. As soon as he notices, Jaskier bats him on the thigh and sticks his tongue out. 

“Stoppit. I could have called earlier if I was bothered. I wasn’t really bothered by that at all, it’s just pain. Well it wasn’t even pain at the time. It doesn’t matter, what matters is, are you okay?” As usual, Jaskier’s blasé way of blowing off his own body bothers Geralt, but its not the time to get into that. Not when Jaskier is looking at him all soft and gentle, concern written across his face. 

“Did I push things too far? You… you did want this right?” His voice goes from concern to flat out fear and Geralt shakes his head and then nods rapidly, confusing himself and Jaskier if the furrowed brow is to be believed. “Maybe try words, love? If you can?”

Jaskier is right, as always, and he nods again and holds up his hand, trying to get his thoughts in a sensible order, not one clouded by the heat. The fucking, goddamn heat. 

“I’m okay, I think I just needed a minute. It ain’t like, I mean we ain’t gone so far before darlin’... was a lot. I kept imaginin’ myself killin’ you. Felt more like a preacher than the police and it was weird. Not bad. Just. Just a lot? I liked it. Liked it a lot actually. Think that’s what scared me the most. Y’know I’ve never been a huge sadist so it was a bit… a lot.”

The words are still getting fumbled and he groaned in frustration but then Jaskier was there, soothing him with a soft hum and arms around his waist. Warm but solid against him. 

“Think the heat is gettin’ to me too. Should probably have drunk some water or somethin’ first. Got distracted. Havin’ a pretty boy in your lap will do that.” 

“If you have heatstroke I swear to-” Geralt cuts him off before Jaskier can work himself into a panic. He’s a pretty easy going person most of the time, but once he gets himself worried he stays worried for far too long. Of course he huffs and glares at being interrupted but it's better than the alternative of giving himself a panic attack.

“Ain’t that bad. Just need a drink an’ maybe a cold shower. Well, lukewarm shower at any rate. Don’t wanna freeze my dick off.” He’s going for a laugh but Jaskier is still frowning, brushing sweaty hair away from Geralt’s face, beginning to unbutton his stuffy uniform. 

“Darlin’. Jask. Sweetheart, look, I liked this. I’d like to do it again. Maybe next time not at the end of a twelve hour shift, on what I swear to Jesus is the hottest day of the year, but definitely again. It ain’t your fault, okay?” He takes Jaskier by the chin and gently tilts his face up, smiling softly until Jaskier nods his agreement. 

“Mmkay. Still got to get you out of this though. And I’ll get you a drink. Warm water. Don’t want to shock the system. Oh! I think I still have some electrolyte packets. And I’ll order us breakfast while you shower. I’m starving now actually, are those biscuits - don’t look at me like that, they’re not all cookies! - anyway, are they still in the bedside table?”

Geralt can’t help but laugh and then Jaskier is laughing too, bright and cheerful in the summer sun. He looks utterly debauched still, a deep red hickey on his neck, his hair a stupid mess.

“I ain’t touched your cookies, darlin’. So unless you’ve been munchin’ at em they should still be there.” He murmurs, but doesn’t give Jaskier a chance to check, instead pulling him close and kissing him senseless, pressing their bodies together. How have they not kissed since he got home? It’s surely a crime not to kiss Jaskier every moment of the day. Every second he has spare. 

Well, maybe not every second, but a lot of them.

The rest he’d happily spend watch Jaskier eat his stupid English cookies, just to see him smile.

(Even if Jaskier is definitely some sort of criminal.)


	2. the illusion of control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer, as is it wont to do, faded into a bright, crisp fall. Or, autumn as Jaskier always insisted. Geralt’s caseload got lighter and then heavier again as the weather turned and the evenings began, once again, to become longer and darker. Jaskier spent half his time at home, burning the food Geralt bought, and half his time out. What he did, Geralt didn’t deign to ask and Jaskier didn’t tell him - which in his mind was the perfect situation for them.

Summer, as is it wont to do, faded into a bright, crisp fall. Or, autumn as Jaskier always insisted. Geralt’s caseload got lighter and then heavier again as the weather turned and the evenings began, once again, to become longer and darker. Jaskier spent half his time at home, burning the food Geralt bought, and half his time out. What he did, Geralt didn’t deign to ask and Jaskier didn’t tell him - which in his mind was the perfect situation for them. 

The gun-not-a-gun had been returned to its box in the safe. He hadn’t looked at it since, other than to clean it and put it away.

As the sweltering heat broke, so too did the fever pitch of their lust. It had been almost a year since they’d first met, six months since they’d first gotten together outside a now shut down bar. Jaskier had been spraying a strangely artistic penis onto the back wall in the pride flag colours. Geralt should have arrested him then and yet…

Well. One thing always leads onto the next. The rainbow dick had been painted over - once by a national flag and then that by an anarchist symbol. Geralt hadn’t been back in a while, the graffiti had likely already changed again, but he and Jaskier were still together and happy besides. Not such a transient thing as he’d first expected.

He was content.

* * *

“Geralt! Geralt are you even - hey! Babe, listen to me. Geeeeerrraalt.” Jaskier rolled over on the bed, his tongue poking out from between his lips. In the late afternoon light he was vaguely golden. And shimmering slightly, glitter across his back and the indent of his collar bones.

He wasn’t going to ask.

“Hmm.” He’d gotten distracted. At the ripe old age of forty-two he was becoming sappy when reminiscing, or maybe it was just nice to have something sappy to remember. 

“Don’t  _ hmm _ me, I was talking to you.” Jaskier huffed and blew a childish raspberry that matched his youthful face. There was a hint of stubble along the square line of his jaw that Geralt wanted to lick along.

  
“Hmm.” He muttered again and Jaskier threw up his hands with a whine. 

“Fine. I won’t ask about the gun again. Asshole.” The last word was murmured with fondness and a cheeky grin.

His attention peaked. At once he had his eyes on Jaskier, tracing the bare plane of his chest. Well, not really bare, seeing as Jaskier had more chest hair than most furred creatures and was proud of it to a boot. It suited him. 

“You’re impatient.” Geralt said and gave Jaskier a  _ look _ that was hard to describe in words. Jaskier described it as his ‘daddy’ look but Geralt had grimaced and asked him very nicely to not call it that again if he ever wanted to fuck again. The word hadn’t come up since. 

“I am not!” Jaskier sat up like a bolt. Rarely, was anything he did slow. Even when he was graceful - which was less often than people often assumed - he was fast. Quick like a snake or a too eager puppy. It was like he had boundless amounts of energy, packed into the lithe form of his body and he was always eager to expel it. Geralt rolled his eyes and shifted onto his side to watch Jaskier better. 

“Geralt! Don’t give me that look, I’m not impatient. It’s been like a month. No, wait. Two almost! I think.” His lips were pursed in a pout that Geralt wanted to kiss away. Or slap. He blinked lazily again. Jaskier huffed and whined, crossing his arms around his bare chest until Geralt sighed and gestured him close. 

“Don’t pout, darlin’. The wind’ll change and you’ll stay like that forever, and then where’d you be?” He rubbed down Jaskier’s back, pushing his thumbs into the dimples just about his ass. “Y’know you only have to ask, when y’want somethin’, sweetheart. Use your pleases and your thank yous.”   
  


Jaskier wriggled in, until he was wrapped tight in Geralt’s arms. He wasn’t pouting anymore. In fact the smile on his face - small as it was - was positively filthy, eyes bright and tongue poking out just a touch.

“Where’s the fun in asking?” Like the wind, Jaskier’s mood changed quick and often. He was rarely angry or upset for long - unless the mood caught him the way a storm rolled in and waited for days above the hills until your skin prickled with it. Gone was the annoyance, replaced only with snark and a little (okay a lot) of lust.

He was a Brat with a capital B. Even so, Geralt worried sometimes, that Jaskier didn’t know how to ask because he’d never been allowed. He knew too, that Jaskier would never tell him, not without a fight, so he didn’t ask. Just tried to steer him in the right direction. At least he knew how to say  _ no _ when he needed. Geralt had had boys before who’d torn themselves up inside trying to please him.

He shook the thought away. It wasn’t the time for melancholy. Jaskier blinked at him, obviously sensing his shift in mood but it was still warm and sunny and he wanted to keep the brightness of the early autumn in the bedroom, at least for a little while.

“You’re a brat, boy.” He said, and squeezed Jaskier’s ass through the loose sweatpants he wore when he was feeling lazy and not planning to go out. It was a good look on him. Relaxed. Real. Jaskier rolled his eyes -

“Did you only just realise that?” He asked and Geralt swatted him once on the ass, just enough for it to sting. As expected, Jaskier let out a playful high pitched moan, nothing like his real ones, and batted his eyelashes like a paid girl might.

“Are you anglin’ for a punishment?” Of course he was though, especially when it wasn’t really a punishment at all. Geralt grinned and then sighed and shook his head, kissing Jaskier’s hair. It smelled like oranges and clean soap, the same way Jaskier always did after a shower. 

“Jask… Jaskier, if you want the gun it ain’t gonna be like last time. Well, it will be in some sense -” He gives Jaskier a dirty grin and a wink that makes him shiver “ - but what I mean is, it’ll be planned. Weren’t in the right mind before. I ain’t gonna let my head get screwed again, y’know. So you want this, boy, you ask me real nice an’ proper, understand?”

There is a pretty pink hue to Jaskier’s cheeks. He’s sweet like that sometimes, still young - or at least younger than Geralt is. Late twenties, early thirties, it’s hard to tell with the way he keeps like an oxymoron with himself. Younger, at least, than most of the men Geralt has been with in the last few years. Simultaneously sure of himself and shy.

Full of contrasts. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t intrigue him.

Jaskier blinks up at him and licks his tongue across his lips, setting his jaw forwards so the lower one is jerked out in a dirty pout. 

“Why officer -” Geralt has to fight off a laugh at the bad imitation of a southern belle drawl Jaskier puts on. He’s a terrible actor at the best of times “ - will you, pretty please, take your gun to me?”

Despite the heat behind the words, he’s still pink and getting redder. The silly voice and the posturing, it’s all a defense mechanism. A way to not expose the underside of his belly too much, too soon. Jaskier likes being scared, Geralt knows that to be a fact. Likes being embarrassed too, no matter how much he denies it.

He huffs out a light laugh and rolls his eyes, runs his thumb over the high arch of Jaskier’s cheekbone. 

“Well darlin’, if that’s what you want I might be able to be convinced.” He drawls back, dropping his voice another octave until it is low enough he can feel it reverberate in his chest, is sure Jaskier can feel it too, if the subtle tensing of his shoulders, the widening of his eyes, is anything to go by. Geralt leans in, drags his teeth across the delicate shell of Jaskier’s ear and feels, rather than hears, the huff of breath that leaves Jaskier at the touch. 

“But don’t do the voice again, boy. Or all you’ll be gettin’ is a cherry red behind, and a cold shower.” 

He pulls himself back just to watch Jaskier go bright red and whine, batting his hands against Geralt’s pecs as if he really is about to have a tantrum, and earn himself the spanking that Geralt’s been threatening. 

“Geralt, you arse! You’re so mean, fucking tease. I just wanted to play along, you and you’re stupid, sexy voice. Not fair.” Geralt can only roll his eyes at the behaviour, having lost count of the amount of times they’ve had this little spat since they’d started fucking. Jaskier isn’t one to take lessons to heart, needs them repeated time and time again. Perhaps he indulges his boy too much. Time in the corner might be a more effective punishment, if the way Jaskier moans when he gets a spanking is any indication.

It isn’t his fault that Jaskier is more of a masochist than Geralt will ever be sadist. They find ways to make it work.

“You really are in a mood today, ain’t you boy?” He questions, leaving his voice light this time, capturing Jaskier’s wrists easily in his own broad palm, holding them against his chest. “I believe I told you, to ask me nice an’ proper, and you’re still actin’ up, puttin’ on voices and bein’ a brat. Maybe you don’t want this half as much as you’re sayin, boy? Is that what it is?” 

Jaskier shakes his head hard and whimpers, a little deer in the headlights. Geralt takes pity on him and softens his look into a half smile, leans forwards to kiss Jaskier’s forehead and then down to the corner of his mouth.

“Use your words, darlin’. I know you got ‘em, Jas, hell, most of the time you ain’t never shuttin’ the fuck up. Ask me nicely for what you want, sweetheart. S’only way you’re gonna get it.” For a moment the room is silent. Geralt can see Jaskier struggling with himself, so used to playing up his naughtiness that he doesn’t quite know how to be nice - not without fucking it up. Luckily for him, Geralt is nothing if not patient. 

Especially when Jaskier looks so pretty in the warm, afternoon light. Not an angel - he’s not pure enough for that - but maybe a different religion entirely. Music and sun. Geralt has always liked the Greeks, can see Jaskier, the Apollo in his bed, god-like but oh so human too. 

Finally, Jaskier looks up. His eyes are lidded but clear as a cloudless, summer sky; endless swathes of blue, layered up on each other.

“Geralt -” He starts, his voice steady and deep and very much his own. A clear British accent that is nothing like the ones he’d heard on tv and all the better for it. “ -I would very much like it, if we could do a scene with your gun again. If you want to, of course!” 

“Oh, sweetheart. Of course we can.” He tilts Jaskier’s chin up with two of his fingers and Jaskier shivers and sighs like it is the middle of winter. Like Geralt’s shitty apartment isn’t a heat sink - especially when they’re both inside. 

“So pretty.” He whispers and their lips meet in a sweet kiss, so slow and thick it might as well be honey. It is tongue and lip, but not an ounce of teeth, and every time they part for breath they end up chasing each other back. Over and over until Geralt knows his mouth is gonna be scarlet red for hours.

Jaskier’s hands tangle in his hair and one, or both of them is moaning as they roll, until Jaskier is on top of him, straddling Geralt’s waist. The kisses don’t stop, just get wet and messy and hungrier and slower. Above him, Jaskier rolls his hips down and Geralt groans when their cocks meet through the clothes they’re both still wearing.

“Mm, Geralt let -” Geralt growls when Jaskier tries to speak, cups his cheeks in both hands to pull him down into another filthy kiss, sucking on the plumpness of Jaskier’s fat lower lip. 

“Geralt, I want to-” Jaskier tries again, and his breath is coming hot and heavy like he’s just run a marathon, spit leaking down his chin. He can’t help but trace the shiny trail with his tongue and Jaskier groans and grinds down against him, sending sparks of heat up his body. “- fuck! You’re such a tease, just let me-”

They don’t find out what Jaskier wants to do because Geralt drags his teeth along Jaskier’s neck and bites down, just hard enough to leave a pretty pink mark. It tastes like salt beneath his tongue and vaguely of clean skin as he sucks the spot up, making Jaskier moan, bouncing his hips like he’s already impaled on Geralt’s cock.

Impatient as always. 

“Shh.” He tells Jaskier and then their mouths are together again and Geralt thinks he might never be able to live without this again. Not when Jaskier feels like sunshine and a holy light around him. Feels the way church never felt - like all his expectations are suddenly being lived up to.

He flips them easily. Jaskier bounces a little and the mattress squeaks. His lips are bright and soft on his face, breath coming in hungry little pants. Leaning down until their noses almost touch, Geralt licks his tongue over the heat of Jaskier’s mouth, palm flat on the sheets by Jaskier’s face. 

“Fuck, Jas, the things y’do to me. Drive me insane, boy. S’not fair how fuckin’ pretty y’are.” Before Jaskier can reply Geralt’s kissing him again, rolling their bodies together like they were always meant to be just one person. Jaskier’s moan is swallowed by their movements, by Geralt devouring him like he’s never going to eat again. 

There’s a shifting beneath him and Geralt drags his teeth across Jaskier’s tongue as Jaskier drags Geralt’s checked sleep pants down his hips until they get caught on his thighs. Jaskier can’t pull them down further, what with how Geralt is pinning him with his body but it's fine. It’s enough for his cock to spring free, hard and aching as he rolls it forwards, smearing precum across Jaskier’s belly.

The feeling sends another, full-body shiver through Jaskier.

“Mm, y’like that, boy? So needy, ain’t you?” He murmurs, as if Geralt isn’t just as affected by the slow, incessant lust that’s wormed its way into them both again. Oh, perhaps they’ve become less inclined to fuck like rabbits at any given moment, but they still tend to fuck like rabbits at any given moment. 

“Fuck yes, Geralt! Love your cock, just lemme touch, I wanna-” Jaskier’s squirming beneath him, still trapped in his own pants, a growing wet spot on the front of them, because fuck if Jaskier doesn’t get wet. Geralt has never had a boy like it, the way Jaskier whines and leaks and makes an utter mess of himself. It’s hotter than the sun, especially when he soaks through his clothes. 

“Mm, not today, sweetheart. You gotta earn it.” Geralt gives him a filthy grin and pins Jaskier’s arms above his head, lightly but Jaskier knows better than to move. Or, he should know better at any rate. 

A low, hungry whine leaves Jaskier and his hips buck up, impatient and hungry for some sort of touch. Geralt lays himself back down against Jaskier, keeping him stuck under his own weight. Jaskier isn’t a small man by any means - is almost as tall as Geralt himself and has broad shoulders and strong thighs, but in terms of pure weight? Pure strength? Geralt has him beat every time.

Beneath him, Jaskier whines. Wriggles until Geralt growls and rolls his whole body forwards, sliding his cock along Jaskier’s belly, the soft hair there. With little more than a kick he has his trousers off completely, but he makes no move to strip Jaskier. A subtle reminder of just who is in control.

It’s always been about control, for Geralt. He wants someone to submit. Enjoys taming unruly brats, watching them come (quite literally) apart in his grasp. Likes watching them beg and know he gets to decide when, and where, and how. And he’s never liked it more than with Jaskier, who spits fire and struggles and loves being brought down and scared and ruined. 

What a special treat he is.

“Geralt, please…” Jaskier whines, his voice thready with need. Always so quick to get himself worked up. Well, Geralt can’t exactly complain, seeing as he’s all worked up too. Luckily for him, he doesn’t have a mean, old, tease of a Dom holding him down. He almost feels sorry for his dear brat.

Almost.

“Shh, sweetheart. C’mon, ain’t you gonna be good for me, boy. That’s it, all y’have to do is lie there, darlin’.” Geralt pushes down tighter, squeezing Jaskier between his body and the bed, hips still working in slow, exacting thrusts as he grinds against Jaskier’s belly. Another moan fills the room, Geralt can feel exactly how hard Jaskier is in his loose sweatpants, the bulge of his cock nestled just behind Geralt’s balls. He rocks himself against it with every languid movement, squeezing Jaskier’s wrists in his hands. 

The air grows warm and hot. For all his teasing, Geralt is also so very desperate with arousal. He leans down and meets Jaskier’s lips with more lazy, wet kisses, all opened mouthed and full of tongue and spit, coaxing more hungry little whimpers out of Jaskier. 

“That’s it boy, gonna make you cum just like this, else you ain’t gonna cum at all, that’s it sweetheart, nice an’ slow an’ good for me.” Jaskier’s hands curl into fists above his head and Geralt can see his eyes going glassy and bright in the late afternoon light. His hips make aborted little movements as Geralt begins to move just a touch faster, eager to get himself off. See Jaskier covered in his cum. He wants to mark his boy, remind the world just who Jaskier belongs to.

It doesn’t matter who, or what, Jaskier is. He belongs to Geralt now.

Fuck, if he ain’t a possessive lover though. 

Possessive, but not entirely cruel. Not today at least. Jaskier makes a choked off little moan and Geralt shifts a little, grinding the meat of his ass over Jaskier’s cock, feeling just how damp his sweatpants already are. He takes his own cock in his spare hand, beginning to stroke himself with movements that are a little rougher, a little faster, than he’d intended. 

“Geralt, sir, Geralt I-!” Jaskier’s cries are louder, breaking off so he can moan between them. He looks utterly wrecked, as sinful as he’s ever been. Geralt can’t begin to describe how much he wants to destroy him, grind him into dust and then rebuild him entirely. Moulded like clay until he’s perfect.

Only, Jaskier is already perfect. Geralt wouldn’t change a thing - except perhaps his incessant desire to put himself in danger. Then again, why else would he be here, writhing like a whore beneath Geralt, if Jaskier wasn’t addicted to the thrill of doing something dangerous? 

“There we go, boy, that’s it. Look at you, writhin’ beneath me, ain’t never seen a sight so sweet, c’mon Jas, come for me now.” 

He buries his teeth in Jaskier’s neck - the other side this time - and leaves a deep, dark bruise. It’s enough to make Jaskier scream as he orgasms, twisting and arching beneath Geralt. The room glimmers around them, Jaskier bucks and it’s impossible to tell whether he’s trying to escape or grinding up for more.

Wouldn’t matter anyway. 

Geralt strokes himself once, twice, and spills with a cry over Jaskier’s toned stomach, painting the soft hair there with his seed. Everything goes strangely still and quiet then. He wonders if this is it. A little death. The sight of heaven. Jaskier in his sheets and his bright lit apartment that smells of sex and oranges and a little bit of incense. And then it shatters. Or rather, it is made ever more human and therefore, ever more brilliant.

“Fuck!” Jaskier groans as his voice finally returns to him and Geralt can only roll off his body to the side and grunt.

“Fuck indeed.” 

* * *

He looks back up at the stupid popcorn ceilings and wonders if it’s too soon to ask Jaskier to go apartment shopping with him. A year, sixth months, a day. Time doesn’t exist here, not when they’re together like this. 

A little hum leaves the man beside him and then Jaskier has shifted to look at him, dragging his fingernails down Geralt’s chest, absent over the many scars that litter his skin. Reminders over every fight he’s been in, both on the job and off. There is a content look in Jaskier’s eyes as he looks up and Geralt can’t help the fond smile, the warm feeling that blossoms in his chest and travels down to his stomach and up to the very tips of his ears. 

“Needed that.” Jaskier murmurs after a moment, splaying his fingers out and resting his hand above Geralt’s heart. It suddenly feels far too loud in his chest. A thundering ba-bump that he can’t quite quieten. He meets Jaskier’s eyes and the moment drags on for a beat and then a second too soon.

Jaskier swallows and Geralt sees an inch of a mask going up and thinks  _ no, not today _ .

“Move in with me! Or… move out with me, I guess. Somewhere nicer than this. I wanna treat you right, darlin’, Jas… Jaskier. Somewhere with actual air-conditioning, like, maybe a spare room for playin’.” 

There’s a wide, doe-eyed look on Jaskier’s face and Geralt feels the  _ ba-bump _ of his heart grow louder with anxiety in his chest and then Jaskier practically slaps him on the nipple in his enthusiasm.

“Yes! Of course! I know just the place, well, maybe. I’ve been looking at it for a while but it always seemed a bit much for just me, but with you it’ll be perfect! It has this lovely big bath-”

Geralt snorts and wonders what exactly he’s gotten himself into, dragging Jaskier close as he babbles. He has a feeling he’s about to become some sort of kept boy, if only he wasn’t a decade and more older with a fine job of his own. Maybe he should feel embarrassed, but honestly, the idea of moving into somewhere with aircon and a bath outweighs any potential shame at having to rely on Jaskier.

It isn’t like his money is made legitimately. It doesn’t matter either.

“Mmkay, darlin’, hold your giddy horses. I’m gonna wanna see the place before we go signin’ any paperwork.” His voice is low and fond and the world outside is very far away when he has Jaskier in his arms, sweet and excited. What does it matter who they are outside. For now they’re just Geralt and Jaskier and -

Well, Geralt might not admit it yet but he cares deeply already. Maybe even loves. But that’s for a later date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I know I promised part 2 was gonna be some fuck but, these boys decided on something different so???? HAVE AT??
> 
> A slightly shorter chapter than before but i hadnt planned on this being multichaptered anyway so??? :) Please kudos and comment if you like <3


	3. on a knife's edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once, he has managed to get off early. Lambert had agreed to swap for a few beers and a picture of Eskel with his hair dyed pink, and Geralt - who had plenty of dirt on the men he considered brothers and little else to use it on - had quickly agreed. Fall was beginning to fade into winter fast now, but the nights were still mild and he hoped that maybe Jaskier would be awake, that they could catch a bite to eat together somewhere nice for once. Perhaps the Thai restaurant they both favoured, instead of eating tacos on the couch again.

For once, he has managed to get off early. Lambert had agreed to swap for a few beers and a picture of Eskel with his hair dyed pink, and Geralt - who had plenty of dirt on the men he considered brothers and little else to use it on - had quickly agreed. Fall was beginning to fade into winter fast now, but the nights were still mild and he hoped that maybe Jaskier would be awake, that they could catch a bite to eat together somewhere nice for once. Perhaps the Thai restaurant they both favoured, instead of eating tacos on the couch again.

Not that he disliked tacos.

It was just nice to have something different every so often. A bit of variety was the spice of life and Geralt enjoyed curry, and chile, and anything with a burn to it. Knew Jaskier did too.

Yeah, Thai would be nice for tonight. Bright and warm enough to combat the briskness that had begun to settle into the air. He didn’t regret the walk home though, enjoyed the way it cleared his head, chasing any lingering thoughts of his job away, waking up his body after what had felt like hours of filling out paperwork.

* * *

  
  
Their new apartment was in what Jaskier called the ‘decent end of the city’ and what Geralt called ‘homes for rich fools with more money than sense’ but that didn’t mean he disliked it. There were far fewer people pissing in the stairwell for one, and there was regular heating and aircon, which wasn’t something Geralt took for granted. Rarely did he see a squad car weaving through the various highrises that made up his neighbourhood. Indeed, there was very rarely crime at all and Geralt had an inkling that it was deliberate, that Jaskier had chosen somewhere quiet and laid back so Geralt could actually relax when he got home.

It was nice. Considerate. Not needed, but a lovely gesture nonetheless.

Geralt adored the apartment - flat, if Jaskier was talking about it - more than he would care to admit.

Which was why his blood went still when he found the door unlocked, swaying slightly on its hinges. Instinctively, his hand dropped to the gun still resting on his hip. He swallowed and nudged the door open further with his foot, and with a silence that people rarely expected from him, slipped inside.

It was dark. The lights hadn’t been turned on and his eyes narrowed as he heard the subtle creak of someone trying their very best to be quiet inside. There was a chill inside the apartment and Geralt wondered if Jaskier had left the AC up too high again. Hoped that he wasn’t still inside.

The gun was heavy when he settled in his hand, looking around the room with a trained glance. The curtains in the window that looked out across the skyline fluttered, the glass carefully hooked ajar. Geralt felt his nose flare, goosebumps rising along the exposed skin of his arms. Surely they didn’t plan to use it as an escape route - this was the fourteenth floor after all.

He took another step forward. There, on the coffee table, was a single red ribbon, tied into a pretty bow.

It sat on top of a very familiar box.

_ Oh _ , Geralt thought,  _ the game was on _ . 

In the hallway there was another rustle. Silent, as he’d been trained, he swapped the gun he held for one almost identical in every way. The rough surface of the buttercup engraving caught on the thumb of his glove when he rubbed it. Unlike that first night, Jaskier knew the gun was a fake.

Or, not so unlike the first night as it turned out. 

* * *

“It wasn’t real though, was it?” Jaskier had asked, a few days later as he panted on Geralt’s chest, flushed and sweaty after riding his cock like he’d never get enough of it. “The gun, it wasn’t real. Or, wasn’t your usual one at least.”

“No.” He’d admitted after a moment. “How’d y’know that though, darlin’?” 

“Oh! It didn’t taste like a gun. Just clean metal. No gun oil.” There had been an easy smile on his face, proud of himself for working it out. Geralt had decided not to ask why Jaskier knew what gun oil tasted like. He didn’t think he’d like the answer.

* * *

Well he wouldn’t make the same mistake again, Geralt thought with a grin, pushing the door shut with an almost silent click. All at once his blood felt like oil in his veins that had been ignited. Took a breath through his nose and tested the weight of the metal in his hands. Unlike that first night, it was cool. When he brought it up to his face he could smell the familiar, bitter scent that filled the room whenever he cleaned his guns. He pressed his lips against the metal and shuddered, a full body flinch that sent arousal from the very tips of his flushed red ears, to his toes where they curled in his heavy boots.

Definitely wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Good. It meant there would be little way to tell the difference between real and fake. Only the little flower. A buttercup, hidden out of sight.

* * *

The game was on.

There was an intruder in his home. Well, the little thief had chosen the wrong apartment to steal from. Obviously wasn’t very smart if he hadn’t done his research and found out just who lived here. Geralt gave a dark, animal grin. He would certainly be having fun tonight.

From the bedroom there was a rustle. Geralt’s ears - sensitive to even the smallest sounds - picked up a few gasps for breath, metal on glass on metal. Jaskier’s jewellery or his own polished cufflinks perhaps. Definitely the little jars of ‘not-perfume’ and expensive aftershave that Jaskier liked to indulge in. Oh, Geralt was going to teach this boy just why he should keep his slippery little fingers to himself, lest he lose them entirely. 

At the end of the hallway was a soft glow. Not the bright main lights of the bedroom, likely the lamp that Jaskier kept to read by when he couldn’t sleep. It was, apparently, an antique. Geralt thought it was garish and too expensive for what it really was but the soft diffuse of light over Jaskier’s face from it was too pretty to resist so he let sleeping dogs lie.

He imagined the thief - a young, slender thing in his mind - brushing his fingers over the polished metal, the delicate stained glass and was thankful then, for the cool night air and their poor, overworked AC, as it cooled the heat in his blood. 

The door didn’t creak when it opened, its hinges were kept well looked after. The man - boy really - didn’t hear him come in. His hands were rifling through Jaskier’s watches. For a man who hated analogue clocks, Jaskier sure had a tonne of the damn things. Thankfully none of them ticked loud enough to be irritating.

“I don’t think those belong to you, boy. If you were smart you’d drop ‘em right now.” By the time he speaks, Geralt has the barrel of the gun pressed against the back of the intruder’s head, the muzzle of it resting in the dip where his neck met his skull. Geralt took another step closer.

The boy froze. 

There was a clatter as the watches slipped from his grip. Geralt could imagine his fingers starting to shake, could see the tremble as it carried its way up lean arms to settle in his shoulders. The thin, black fabric that the little thief wore did little to hide his frame. Tall, muscled. Somehow still delicate when Geralt pushed him up against Jaskier’s prized, vintage vanity.

“I-I… I can explain.” The voice was low and accented. Faintly familiar. Foreign too, like Jaskier’s but rougher than his lyrical Queen’s English. Instead, there was a slight curl to his letters, a twinge of rough that even Geralt could recognise meant ‘poor’ and ‘country’. 

“Now, I think you’re lyin’ to me, as well as stealin’ from me boy. I ain’t exactly inclined to trust you. Unless the next words outta your mouth were gonna be, ‘why yes Officer, I was plannin’ to run off with your valuables’ I don’t think I wanna hear ‘em, understand?” He nudged the gun closer, forcing that pretty head to drop forwards. There was a moment where he went to nod and then realised that it was likely a bad idea. 

Had he not been so angry, Geralt might have laughed.

“Y-Yes, Officer.” Jas- The boy, bit out, and Geralt was intrigued by the mix of emotions beneath the heady sound of fear.

Scared, yes, but defiant too. Angry and proud, as if the world had always been against him and Geralt was nothing more than another obstacle to get around. The stiff set to his shoulders, the curling of his fists by his sides were proof enough. His little thief had a chip against the world.

_ Interesting. _   
  


“Good boy. Looks like you catch on quick. Maybe you’re not as empty in the head as I first though, pickin’ a cop as your target.” Geralt tapped the gun absently where it rested. The tiny thumb was echoed by the heavy beating of his heart. A shiver went through the boy and Geralt hummed, feeling a little like Alice as she stared into the never ending abyss of a rabbit hole -  _ curiouser and curiouser  _ indeed.

“Now here’s what’s gonna happen boy. You’re gonna turn around nice an’ slow for me. An’ then you’re gonna tell me your name, real polite like. Else I might find myself with a.. Well, a bit of a twitch on the old trigger y’know. And there ain’t no-one out there who’d vouch for you boy.”

There is a long moment where neither of them move. Against him the thief is pulled taught like the string of a bow. His lower lips juts out in childish protest - Geralt can see it in the mirror now, the dusky baby blue of his eyes. There is a fire burning inside of them, anger and passion and hate. 

Then, Geralt slowly pulls away. Keeps the gun steady in his hand, letting it hover close as the boy turns against the vanity, ending up awkwardly pressed against it. No point giving him a chance to bolt, Geralt figures. Best to keep him held and trapped, like a butterfly pinned to a corkboard. He hums in approval when the boy looks up at him, his jaw set as if it might make him look older. Or perhaps less scared.

“Good. Looks like you managed step one. Now, I believe I asked you for your name too.” He tips the gun under the counter of his chin, uses it to tilt that pretty face up towards him. There is a tense moment and Geralt wonders if he might bite or burst into tears. Wonders if Jaskier will call this whole thing off.  _ Albatross _ rings in the back of his mind like a bell but the word doesn’t come.

Instead the little thief shows the barest hint of courage and bears his pearly teeth at the wolf in front of him.

“Why should I fucking tell you?” He snaps out and Geralt growls, takes a second to get a nod from Jaskier, and then slaps him across the face with the barrel of the gun. A crack echoes throughout the bedroom, a bright red mark blossoms on the thief’s skin. Tears rise to his eyes from the sudden shock of pain.

Geralt traces a thumb over the split that has appeared in the middle of his fat bottom lip and coos. 

“Because I asked you nicely, boy, and I ain’t gonna ask again.” There is an audible swallow and Geralt can see the thief gathering what little wits he has left, his hands clenching tighter. Geralt gives him a beat before he raises the gun again. It is enough to have the boy crying out, shaking his head roughly.

“Julian! My name is Julian! Please, please don’t hit me again!” He gasps out and Geralt smiles, slow and satisfied as he looks down at the boy. At Julian.

“Good boy. Now, was that so hard? Weren’t any need for all that poutin’ and swearin’ was there, Julian?” The room is cool, Geralt can hear the buzz of the AC, feel the way it blows cold air over them both. He raises a slow eyebrow at Julian (wonders just where that name came from) as he waits for a response. 

* * *

“No. No there weren’t, Officer.” There’s something simple in the way he speaks. An anger that suggests he’s said such a line more times than he’d care to count. Geralt coos again and wipes a thumb over the mark that’s blooming across Julian’s pale cheek, making him wince beneath the touch.

“There we go, sweet thing. All you gotta do is be polite to me, an’ I think you’ll find we’ll get along just fine.” There’s going to be a nasty bruise on Julian’s poor face. Geralt would regret it, if it didn’t look so pretty. “Poor thing, gonna bruise up like a peach.”    
  
Julian rips his face away. Practically bends himself in half across the vanity as he snarls - it’s cute. Like a puppy trying to fight with a full grown wolf. Geralt finds himself grinning as he steps forwards, forcing Julian’s thighs to spread, keeping the gun tight under his chin. 

“None of that, boy! You better be polite, or you ain’t gonna want to know what I do to you.” He hisses out and rubs his finger slowly over the trigger. Against the muzzle of the gun, Julian swallows. The round, Adam’s apple of his throat rolls and Geralt sees a flush work its way down from his cheeks and settle over his throat and jaw.

_ Interesting _ , he thinks again. Licks his lips slowly.

“Now here’s how its gonna go, darlin’. I can call my squad. Have ‘em throw you in prison - pretty thing like you, I’m sure you’ll do well. Eventually you’d get thrown back to your own sorry country.” Julian’s blue eyes widen in fear and he makes an aborted whine in the back of his throat.

“Mm, don’t like that idea? Well… I do have another one, boy. But it involves you bein’ very, very, good. An’ I ain’t sure if you can handle that.” There’s another choked little sound and Julian shifts. Geralt thinks it might be the first time he’s seen the boy truly scared and he’s a little impressed by the will he has, even at the end of another man’s gun.

“I-I can be good.” Julian grits out and Geralt can’t help but delight at how much he obviously detests saying the words. “Just don’t send me back... Officer.” The last word is obviously tacked on but Geralt can’t bring himself to care. Not when it sounds so pretty coming out of Jask - Julian’s sweet mouth. 

It’s definitely clear what he’d prefer to do. What he will do. Yet he can’t help but want to draw this out. Really make the little thief squirm. After all, he’s got to make this punishment stick and they have barely gotten started. Haven’t really started at all.

“Hmm. I don’t know, boy. You don’t seem too eager to me. Looks like you’d rather find yourself in the back of a squad car.” Another terrified little sound leaves Julian and Geralt finds his blood growing hot, hot, hot in his veins as shiny tears bead in the corner of his pretty eyes.

“No, no, please Officer! I’ll be good, I’ll do whatever you want, please just don’t c-call anyone!” Julian sucks his lip between his teeth and gives Geralt a sweet, pleading look. It’s entirely fake. Any cop worth his salt would be able to tell. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t go straight to his cock though, not when a boy so pretty is begging him.

He hums, a low drawn out sound, and taps the gun absently against Julian’s split lip, delighting in the gasp of pain it draws from that plush little mouth.

“Well sweetheart, if you think you can do it…” He coos and watches Julian’s hackles raise. Such an easy boy to get riled up. Oh, if Geralt had the time he’d break this sweet thing into the perfect little whore. If he only has a night, he’ll certainly give it a good effort. 

“On your knees. Hands behind your head, boy. You want to stop this, we’ll stop but I think you know what that means for you, sweetheart. Still, you’re gonna give me a word, or I’ll make the call now instead of then.” 

His eyes scan Julian’s bright blue. A little check-in. For his own sanity at any rate, even if Jaskier finds it a tad stifling at times. Better to be safe than sorry. Julian hiccups and sinks awkwardly to his knees, lacking the grace of any well trained boy. His hands tremble when they lock behind his head and Geralt can tell he’s biting his tongue not to cry.

* * *

“Albatross. S’my word.” Geralt savours the anger in his voice. The sliver of hatred that Julian can’t quite hide. Not when Geralt has him kneeling and exposed. He rests the gun, still cool at the muzzle, in Julian’s soft hair and finally takes a moment to admire the lithe body beneath him.

Trussed up in tight black cotton and leather he looks like he’d be more at ease in a BDSM club than sneaking into Geralt’s highrise apartment. Not that it’s a bad look, he muses. The harness alone will certainly make it easier for Geralt to manhandle him. As for the skin hugging, turtle neck. Well, Geralt has a knife that can make short work of it.

“Good boy. Y’know, sweetheart, I think you an’ I are gonna get on just fine. In fact, I wager a boy like you is just anglin’ for a punishment, if your lil’ problem is any indication.” 

Geralt smirks and nudges his boot against the elephant in the room. Julian whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut. Between his spread legs, Julian is harder than most men after a lapdance and a striptease from a two-buck whore. When Geralt rests the sole of his boot over the heavy bulge, he lets out a low whine and can’t stop himself grinding up.

“I-I don’t..! Sh-Shuttup, I’m not, it’s just-” 

“Shh, darlin’” Geralt cuts him off with a snort, “ain’t gonna be any excuse you can think up in your silly little head that can explain this, other than the truth. It’s alright boy, I’ve dealt with enough cock hungry whores with authority issues to know one when I see one.”

Julian opens his mouth. Perhaps to complain or deny.

Geralt shoves the muzzle of the gun between his spread lips before he can try to speak again. There is a low choked sound as it clacks lightly against his teeth and Julian’s blue eyes widen. His breath comes in short little pants that seem to echo around the room and then - like the cheeky shit Geralt can already tell he is - he pokes his tongue out and wraps it around the barrel of the gun.

Geralt groans. Grinds his boots forwards, the steel cap of them hard against the soft swell of Julian’s cock. 

“Look at you, boy. Ain’t even put my hands on you, and you’re already moaning like a street girl, stickin’ your tongue out for any old tool. Only, you ain’t even gettin’ paid, so you must be even more dick-dumb, darlin’.” Julian whines around the barrel of the gun and Geralt can see his eyes going glassy at the taste of it, the way it slides over his tongue.

“See, boy, you’re gonna get this nice and wet. And then I’m gonna use it to stretch that pretty lil’ body of yours open for my cock. So you better do a damn fine job and hope I don’t get a restless finger.” There’s a moan and Julian begins to bob his head, swallowing around the hard metal as if it’s Geralt’s cock buried down his throat. Against the hard sole of Geralt’s shoe, Julian ruts his hips, grinding his cock up even when Geralt squeezes so tight it hurts.

He’s eager for this.

That makes Geralt’s blood boil.

After all, this is meant to be a punishment. He can’t have this brat, this little thief, thinking Geralt is going easy on him. Groaning, he rubs his thumb over the trigger, palms his own hard cock through his uniform pants. Briefly, he wonders if he’s going to have to buy yet another pair - it seems he’s ruining them now more than ever before and he blames it entirely on Jaskier.

It’s definitely not his own impatience and greedy desire to claim the boy, over and over, that has him ripping his own pants as he strips. Definitely not. Well, it isn’t like Jaskier is here now, thankfully. Geralt has a different toy to play with. He knows his lover won’t mind, Jaskier has always spoken fondly of his ‘open’ relationships.

“Don’t get too comfortable, boy. I found you with your fingers in the cookie jar, an’ I don’t know what your Mama did back where you were raised but she obviously weren’t doin’ it right,” he takes a moment to look down at Julian and smirk. Definitely not raised right, if his current position is to be believed, “but if I took somethin’ that weren’t mine… Well, I got a spanking till my ass was crimson, and you’ll be gettin’ one too boy.”

Julian whines around the gun and he squirms on his knees, trapped between the edge of the vanity and Geralt - Geralt’s gun, Geralt’s foot. Just the sight makes his head throb. Both of them. It’s like he’s been possessed, or being delivered into temptation the way the nasty old priest used to warn him.

Well, at least temptation is pretty to look at.

The gun leaves Julian’s lips with a wet pop. Geralt meets his eyes and watches as they widen, as Julian’s nostrils flare. His head dips forwards, just an inch. Geralt brings the gun across his face again, aiming for the other cheek instead. Wants to leave another deep bruise that’ll take days - if not weeks to fade.

It’s horrible. A horrible thought. But Julian - Jaskier, wants this just as much as he does and Geralt can’t say no when neither of them have any desire to hear the word. It would sour the room. Turn this whole mess grey. The cold makes his skin prickle where it’s expose and Geralt tangles his hand tight in Julian’s hair, using it to wrench him off the floor.

“On the bed, boy.” No. No, he doesn’t want these vibrant colours to fade. Couldn’t bare to lose Jaskier. No matter what secrets he has hiding behind his little smiles, his jewel bright eyes. 

This right here is the most alive he’s felt in half a decade. He can’t bring himself to ruin it.

Geralt hooks his hand in the harness when Julian doesn’t move fast enough and is pleased to find that it is as sturdy as it looks when he uses it to throw Julian onto the mattress. Working on what appears to be entirely instinct, Julian scrambles back, whining high in fear as Geralt stalks towards him like the predator he’s always claimed to be.

“C’mon lil’ bird, none of that,” he hisses, dragging Julian down by his slender ankles, making the boy scream, “thought you were gonna be good, boy? Or ain’t that possible?”

* * *

  
  


“No, no, I’m good!” Julian gasps out and Geralt notes the words with a hum.  _ Jaskier is fine, keep going _ ; so he lifts one shaking leg and bites the tender meat of Julian’s calf hard, suddenly desperate to taste the salt and sweat that lingers on his skin. He’s stopped by the tight fabric of Julian’s jeans but it doesn’t stop him from trying. From digging his teeth in deep. Beneath him, his boy keens like - well like he’s been bitten - and his other leg kicks out, heel smacking at the bed.

It’s not enough. He growls in the back of his throat. The AC feels like ice when it blows cold air over his skin, the only thing close to calming the burning that seems to take over his brain when he’s like this.

He hooks the gun under the tight leather harness and uses it to drag Julian up and hold him, half hanging, in place. The position arches his back, his head falls back after a few moments, and he looks utterly helpless. 

Geralt reaches into the holster on his own calf and slides out a thin, sharp blade.

It’s not police issue. He probably shouldn’t have it at all. But Jaskier had given it to him and he’d been dreaming about using it ever since. If he doesn’t have the chance to use it on his own sweet boy then maybe this filthy little thief will be a good enough substitute. 

Julian’s eyes go wide and black with fear - or arousal, Geralt doesn’t care much and silently hopes it's the former - at the sight of the knife.

“Officer…” His voice is thick and gravelly - dipping almost as low as Geralt on a normal day. Geralt only hums in response, twirls the knife delicately on his fingers as he watches. Waits. They’ve spoken about this before, him and Jaskier, but this is the first time Geralt has pulled the knife out. And in the middle of an already intense scene too. For a moment he waits, worried that he might have finally pushed Jaskier too far but then the moment passes without a colour or a word.

“Don’t speak, boy, unless I tell you too. Unless y’want me to get distracted? Mess up that pretty lil’ body of yours?” Julian only shakes his head minutely in response. Geralt wonders how fast his heart is beating, like a rabbit or a hummingbird perhaps. A rapid bum-bump in his chest.

He moves the gun back to its holster for a moment and drops Julian back onto the bed. The knife glitters against the soft light that bathes the room. Julian is pale and yet the brightest red that Geralt has ever seen. The gold glow from Jaskier’s pretty antique lamp softens the colour, as well as the sharp angle of his jaw. He looks like an angel, glowing under a halo.

Crying so prettily.

Geralt grips the thin turtleneck, rubs the fabric between his fingers. It’s soft and probably expensive. A little luxury for a boy who’s stealing and scrounging to survive. Too bad Geralt is going to ruin it.

More tears leak down Julian’s face. Despite how hard he tries to lie still, Geralt can see his chest twitching as he holds back his sobs. He rests the flat of the blade against Julian’s slender throat and rubs his hand over the swell between his legs. Then tugs his glove off with his teeth so he can do it again.  _ Soaked _ , Julian is absolutely soaked. The realisation sends a heady thrill through him.

Julian whines almost silently when he’s touched and Geralt can see by how his lips curl and purse that he’s humiliated. Hates how much he likes this.

How perfect.

And then, slowly, he begins to drag the knife down from Julian’s neck. The sharp edge of it barely touches his skin and it cuts through the fabric of his top like it was butter. The edges fold and curl as they come apart. The pointed tip of the knife leaves a faint pink mark where it scratches along.

He takes his time. Doesn’t need to. The knife is sharp enough it would cut through anything with little problems but it's fun to see Julian struggle not to whine. Slowly, the fine black fabric peels away. Below, the skin is creamy and covered in a thick thatch of hair. That in itself is unexpected but not particularly unwelcome. Another sweet surprise, a reminder to take his time.

The world seems to hang on a needlepoint, or more accurately a knife’s edge, as Julian’s chest, and then stomach, is finally laid bare. He flicks his tongue over his mouth at the sight and squeezes the knife’s grip.

“Oh, sweetheart. I am goin’ t’have fun with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY IM SORRY ITS ANOTHER CLIFF HANGER THESE CHAPTERS ARE JUST TOO LONG,,,, enjoy the uh??? slowburn porn i gues :)) i promise the fuck is coming i just cant stop the build up. 
> 
> kudos and comment if you want me to update fast (i want me to update fast but i live on attention and attention alone.


	4. on the trigger

Julian shivers again and Geralt drags the knife along his collar bone, savouring the sweet whimper that leaves the boy as the cool metal touches him. The pressure is light enough that it doesn’t cut, but it wouldn’t take much. One wrong move and they’d both be seeing red. 

“Look at you, boy. Right where you belong, at my mercy. Gonna make you beg an’ you’re gonna like it, little whore that you are.” He drags the knife down, watching it slice at Julian’s chest hair, and then presses down a little harder.

A brilliant line, pink and sharp, blossoms beneath the blade. A choked back sob echoes throughout the room and Geralt looks up and narrows his eyes. Julian’s hands are clamped into tight fists, his teeth digging into the flesh of his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Every inch of him is taut with fear and arousal. Geralt tuts and leans up, pries his lip out and rubs the split of it with his glove.

“Now c’mon sweetheart, none of that. Wouldn’t want y’to hurt yourself, would we?” As if Geralt hasn’t got a knife running down Julian’s chest, hasn’t put his gun to the boy’s head and threatened to pull the trigger. 

* * *

Flames ignite behind Julian’s eyes. He doesn’t dare move, not with Geralt so close, but his lips twitch in anger. Oh and he’s a brave little thing. Even now, Julian glares like a caged animal just waiting to break free and bite it’s master's hand. His mouth curls up in the barest hint of a scowl, shows off the perfect white of his teeth. 

“F-Fuck you, you bastard, you fucking- fucking! You fucking pig, cop prick!” Julian doesn’t move, his words come out high and needled. Fear and anger and arousal make a heady mix, Geralt can tell he’s barely breathing. It almost makes him want to give up and just fuck the boy there and then but that wouldn’t do. Not when Julian is being so rude.

He digs the knife in and listens to the strangled gasp of pain as the first ruby beads well up around it. There is a moment when all the air seems to leave the room, freezing and impossibly tense. Geralt waits a beat for a word - any word - but nothing comes. And then he drags the knife down, slow and steady, to the bottom of Julian’s rib cage.

“I oughta cut your tongue out now, speakin’ to me like that boy! You must really not have anythin’ rattlin’ ‘round in that pretty head of yours, if you think rilin’ me up is a good idea.” With a flourish he pulls the knife away and rests it over Julian’s throat. It leaves messy red smears where it touches. 

Unbidden, Julian starts crying in full, his hips jutter up as his whole body shakes. Geralt can smell him, the sharp tang of his arousal. Slowly, he crawls up closer to Julian, shoves his knee between the boy’s strong thighs and grinds it hard into his cock.

“God, you’re disgusting, boy. Ain’t fuckin’ right in the head, are you, gettin’ as wet as a woman while I have a knife at your throat. Is this why you chose my house, sweetheart, bet you knew I lived here, bet y’wanted this, right darlin’?” 

“No, no, I didn’t- I didn’t know!” His voice is somehow impossibly higher, thick as he forces it out around the lump of tears in his throat, tiny as he tries to keep his neck oh so still, lest he irritate the blade against it. Julian, Geralt thinks, is an unconvincing liar. Especially when Geralt can feel his hips twitching in minute movements, trying to rub his hard dick against something. 

“You ain’t a good liar sweetheart, not gonna convince me if y’can’t stop fuckin’ yourself against my knee.” He keeps his voice syrupy sweet and jerks said knee up. Julian goes pale and then bright red at the pain and he cries out loud and clear. Geralt pulls the knife away - just in case - and then Julian is shaking as he comes in his pants untouched. 

Well, almost untouched. 

“No, no, no-” Julian hiccups and tries to cover his face. Geralt practically flings the knife away (he doesn’t, he puts it nice and careful on the table, next to the still spit shined gun) and pins fragile wrists above Julian’s head. 

“Now c’mon sweetheart, y’can’t tell me that a filthy lil’ whore like you is embarrassed at creamin’ your pants like a teenager. S’okay, boy, we’re gonna get them off now anyway. I ain’t done with you yet.” 

Julian writhes against him but it is clear that all the strength has left him. Geralt continues to grind his knee against the soaked crotch of his jeans as he all but scrambles to find the cuffs, hooking them around the headboard and then around Julian’s wrists. The steel glints in the soft light, squeezed tight around frail bird-bone, trapping his boy in place. 

Geralt hums in satisfaction. Takes a moment to sit back and admire his work, rolling his shoulders as icy air brushes over the back of his neck. It is nice, he thinks, to have a moment to cool down. With one practised hand he lets his head down from the tight bun he wears for work. He can feel Julian’s eyes, blurry as they must be with tears, watching him and he can’t help but flex a little.

“See somethin’ you like, boy?” He teases and Julian curls a little and scowls, breath still coming in heavy gasps. Blue eyes squeeze shut as he shakes his head, pulling roughly on his cuffs. All Geralt can do is laugh, Julian isn’t going anywhere any time soon. Not if Geralt doesn’t want him to. 

“Mm, whatever y’say, sweetheart.” He rolls his eyes and begins to carefully unbutton his shirt, takes his time folding it and hanging it in the closet. Doesn’t turn back to Julian even then. There’s no rush after all, Geralt has all night to play. Instead he turns to the vanity, begins righting the toppled over bottles, hangs the jewellery back on it’s orante little stands. Jaskier is what his grandfather would have called ‘a right pansy’. Geralt can’t help adore him for it - Jaskier that is, not his grandfather. 

The minutes pass, slow and syrupy. Geralt listens as Julian tries to get his breathing under control, tries to quiet his rough sobs. He doesn’t do a very good job. He looks at the watches that Jaskier has collected, the ones he never wears. All of them, he notes with a snort, are out of sync, all set to various strange times. 

* * *

Eventually, Julian whines.

“D-Don’t leave me here, what are you doing? Just, if you’re not- Just let me go!” Geralt turns back and laughs almost fondly, rests a hand on his hip. Despite the chill of the room he doesn’t feel cold. In fact, it’s been a while since he’s felt more alive.

“Now, sweetheart, why would I do that? Not when I have you right where I want you, all trussed up and ready to be for me, boy.” He hums and raises a curious eyebrow, brushing his gloved hands against his trousers. Inside of them he’s harder than steel but Geralt is a patient man, and he has plenty of practise ignoring his own arousal until it's necessary. Until the right moment hits.

“Well, well you weren’t doing anything else.” Julian bites out, but he sounds more upset than angry now and Geralt… Geralt can’t wait to thoroughly take him apart. After all, Julian is already breaking down so beautifully. He flinches as Geralt takes two long steps to the bed - Geralt is a tall man with a stride appropriate to his height and it never takes him very long to get anywhere. Especially if he has a purpose.

Though, Julian is more of a prize than a purpose.

He hums and carefully picks up Julian’s ankle. With an exaggerated care he begins to unlace the rubber soled boots he wears. The laces on them are pulled tight and knotted into rough bows but Geralt only takes moments to untie them and tug the boots off, throwing them onto the floor. It’s over so quickly that Julian doesn’t even try to kick or fight. He seems disappointed when he realises he missed the chance.

“Oh, sweetheart, you do pout so pretty.” Geralt murmurs as he picks up the knife again, playing with the tight hem of Julian’s jeans. With his thumb, he tests the blade, satisfied to find it’s still sharp. The seam of the jeans runs up Julian’s strong calves and soft, thick inner thighs. Geralt is fascinated by the strength he finds there.

“Dressed up like a present, didn’t you boy? Tight lil’ jeans, showin’ off everythin’ to me like the desperate little whore you are.” He murmurs, his voice a low throaty growl as he takes one of those pretty legs and pulls it up towards his own shoulder. With his free hand he rubs over the strong muscles, digging his thumb into every spot he knows is sure to be sensitive. It is easy to get Julian whining and squirming, tongue poking out just so from between his soft, bruised lips.

Geralt doesn’t even feel bad for the bruise. 

* * *

It isn’t until Julian is shivering, his hips jumping at every touch, that Geralt brings the knife down. It rests just above the seam - no point trying to get through the stitches - and Julian whimpers. The sound is like music to his ears, hot against the still cold room. Geralt drinks it down like his morning coffee, can’t wait to cause more of those sweet noises.

Slowly, he drags the knife up. It cuts through the tight jeans with ease, there’s not even the tell-tale  _ shnick _ of fabric being sliced, just a careful, easy glide from ankle to knee. The skin below is pale, whiter than Julian’s arms or chest. Surprisingly less hairy than his torso too, though still covered in a fine layer of the stuff.

Julian hiccups above him, just the once. Geralt looks up and raises an eyebrow, trailing the knife back down the swell of Julian’s calf.

“Somethin’ wrong, boy?” He asks and is a little startled at the snort.

“Fucking hell Geralt, those were expensive.” Jaskier says with a strangled laugh and Geralt can’t help but roll his eyes - trust Jaskier to break character over a pair of jeans. 

“Well, you shoulda worn somethin’ less tight then, darlin’.” Geralt shakes his head at the affronted look on Jaskier’s face and slaps him lightly on the calf, where the skin has been exposed. “No use poutin’ about it now.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the weird cut off point, i just wanted to get this updated jdfkvnd
> 
> as always kudos and comments encourage me to write! I hope you enjoy this <3

**Author's Note:**

> Please kudos and comment if you liked this!! If enough people want it I'll do a uh sequel where they actually do the fucking (with the gun ;) )


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